


when you fight, go for the soft bits

by carlemon



Category: Bully (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 15:04:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12460251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carlemon/pseuds/carlemon
Summary: The Taylor siblings spar.





	when you fight, go for the soft bits

"Are you _deaf_ or something? I already told you I’m not going to hit you— fix your back. You’ll throw out a shoulder like that.”

Zoe scowls, shifts her stance, obeys— but only because she knows he's the champion— this, from the fact that he _never shuts u_ p about it, that he’ll take any chance to rub it in her face. Rolling her shoulders, she throws another punch at the pad in his right hand, ignoring his little leery huff of disapproval— god, for someone she’s sure subsists entirely on protein shakes and sycophantic praise, Bif could be such a _chick._ “I don’t see why,” she remarks, as resentful as she can manage with a face full of sweat and the dull cramping ache of inexperience pegged into and tugging at the crook of her elbow. “You’re not the only one around here who can throw a punch.”

Another hit. He shifts slightly with the impact and she allows herself a moment of pride, smacking him on the shoulder with her glove when he pointedly refuses to return her grin. “No,” he agrees, almost jovially, borderline kindly, “I’m not. But I am the _best.”_ He lowers one big hand to clumsily thump himself in the chest, pad and all. Zoe rolls her eyes and hits the other pad.

“Yeah, and the rest of us are dirt, right? One-hit kills.”

He preens, because of course he does. “You said it, not me.” Heat warms her cheeks, briefly, furiously. She swallows it, cocking her head to the side to better fix him with her glare.

“I swear to god, if you remind me there’s something wrong with my form one more time, I’ll break your jaw.” Another punch. He wouldn’t be wrong, anyhow: her fists feel tiny, wholly and unpleasantly eclipsed in Bryce's gloves, their massive bulk a mistake entirely on her part— Pinky'd hidden her gear somewhere after Zoe'd not-quite-accidentally opted to use her towel during her last visit to Glass Jaw, so she'd had to get creative. She’d sort of half-fit Parker's, and had drastically underestimated the size of Bryce’s hands against his, and hers. Bif’d mocked her relentlessly for it, to let her know she deserved it, and, hell, whereas she’s fairly sure she shouldn’t be sweating this profusely, she’s _absolutely_ certain she’s in better shape than this.

“You know, acceptance—” he jeers, “—is the first step to recovery.”

He steps back before the savage kick aimed at his shin connects, just in time for her to slip awkwardly against the mat and just nudge him with the toe of one worn-out trainer. He shoots her a look that’s nothing short of revolted and she hits him again. This time, he doesn’t budge.

“Do you even know what that means? Whatever.” She grunts, adjusting her stance, digging her heels right into her trainers. “You know—” _Punch_. “—I heard you can’t call yourself that anymore.” _Punch_. “Champion, I mean. I heard Jimmy beat the hell out of you.” She hardens herself against the hatred that she knows’ll overwhelm entirely his features before she looks up, but there’s still something terrifying about the narrowed slits of his eyes, the rictal set of his jaw. Angry in a way that demands she _fuck off;_ angry in a way that could make him even more powerful even if it was the whole goddamn world up against him, more menacing than could ever aspire to be. _Tough girl, indeed._

“Hopkins got lucky,” he grits out, eventually. “I’m still the champ. I could lay him out any day.”

 _Punch_. “Oh, big talk from the guy who got beat up by the new kid.”

“This, from a savage?”

“You’re one hell of a sore loser, you know that?” Wiping the sweat off her upper lip, she shoots him a lopsided grin, kicking at him again when he fails to respond. “Don’t look at me like that. C’mon— hands up.”

He grudgingly obliges, teeth worrying his bottom lip, painting a portrait of careful rumination. She doesn’t entertain the thought of what’s got him looking so pissy— her mistake, really, like _everything fucking else_ , really, because she only gets in one— two— hell, _three_ hits before he falters and begins to lower them again. “You know you’re not getting anything out of him.”

She groans. “God, not this again. I don’t need this from you—”

“You _know_ I’m right.” —Because he can’t comprehend anything else, because that’s what’s been _bred into him_ and they both know it _._ “Doesn’t it make you feel... pathetic? Disgraceful? Sordid? Tell me if one of those sounds right.”

“Oh, yeah, just because the only person you could ever date is _yourself—”_

He hisses derisively and steels himself against her next hit, and even that sudden, infinitesimal lack of yield is too much for her, damn near toppling her over. He’d gotten his ass kicked by Jimmy, and she’s kicked Jimmy’s ass before, but he can still probably break her in half, if not with his fists then with the sheer magnitude of his ego and the pompous entitlement he wears like all the other rich kids— like a goddamn second skin. She hates it. She hates it and she hates Bryce’s ill-fitting boxing gloves, and she hates him and how she can’t even properly hit him for it: when her fist comes at him, only half-aiming at the pad, he swats her away, brutally ripping the pad from his hand to catch her by one comically large mitt when she sways ‘round to meet him.

“Does he make you feel safe?” he asks. “Does _Hopkins_ make you feel safe?” There’s laughter just under his tongue, barely-hidden, and the injustice of that alone pisses Zoe off, the sheer fact that he’s _her_ and she’s _him_ , that they have the same damn blood running through their veins, and yet every time he looks at her he sees either a charity case or a _joke._ “Talk to me. Is it because you think he can protect you? You _are_ a chick.”

She whips her fringe out of her eyes with a fantastic toss of the head, briefly wishing her hair were long enough to tie up with— a bobble, or something; something hard enough to get him in the eye, something that could add to his pretty little collection of bruises and make him sore enough to let the matter _drop_. “You’re kidding, right? Can Jimmy even take care of himself?” He doesn't reply, shooting her a look that’s half amused and half downright venomous, and she snarls and rips one of Bryce’s gloves off her hand, only just managing to sling it at a trophy case instead of him.

He’d probably catch it, anyways. 

“What’s your problem, Bif? I’m not some— fucking little kid, are you kidding me? I can take care of myself.” She wrings out her free hand with a little more violence than necessary, the crack of her wrist drowned entirely but what he says next, what she gave him the ammunition to tell her. 

“ _I can take care of myself_ ,” he parrots. “Of course you can. That’s what you’ve been doing. I must’ve _missed it,” —_ and his eyes _narrow_ and he squares his shoulders and she hears it before it’s even out of her mouth and she _hates_ it and she hates how her treacherous throat seams itself up before she can stop him— “when you were kicked out. That was taking care of yourself, right?” To his credit, he seems to realise that that alone is wrong, but it’s like he always has to be contrary to her just because he can, like he can’t stop even as her own voice shrivels up and dies in her throat. 

“Out, with Burton— with Burton, _christ._ In with the junkies and the scumbags. Taking care of yourself, right? How impressive.” He casts a glance at her discarded mitt, only then faltering slightly. It takes a full four seconds for some of the colour to go out of his face, for the vicious arrogance in his eyes —her eyes, _hers_ — to dim, if only slightly. He opens his mouth. This time, she beats him to it.

“Is this what this is?” She sounds as strident as she wishes she feels, as she wishes she'd been a year ago. “Is this your half-assed way of telling me I’m a fuck-up? I’ve heard it before.”

“That’s _not_ what I meant. You know that.”

“Then what is it? You went off on me— you’ve been going off at me just to tell me what? That _you’d_ take care of me?” Her breath comes short and sharp and exhausted through her grit teeth as on steady legs she stalks forward, uncomfortable at the extent to which she has to crane her neck to maintain eye contact with him but determined to do it anyways. “That would’ve been nice. Sweet, even, I dunno — twelve years ago.”

He goes quiet. They glare at each other, both unwilling to retreat. She can see so much of herself in his face, in his whetted cheekbones, in the vexed set of his brow. She wonders if he thinks the same, how she’d feel about that. 

In all honesty— uncomfortable, probably. Eventually it’s him who breaks eye contact first to pick up the pad at his feet. He doesn’t even bend down normally— actually squats, instead. 

She doesn't think there're enough eye rolls in the world to do how she feels about Bif Taylor justice.

“I’m not using these anymore,” she tells him when he shoots her a meaningful look to invite her forward, brandishing her still-gloved hand. “I’m _not.”_

He snickers. “Gord’s probably a better fit—”

“Oh. _No.”_

“You can check if Justin’s—”

She makes a face, unsure of what she’d find more unpleasant: discussing the intricacies of her relationships with Jimmy and the other Townies with Bif, or interacting with Justin Vandervelde in any capacity. “Screw that.” She fumbles at the strap of the glove, taking it in her teeth when it refuses to give, and biting out a muffled “ _fuck_ you,” when Bif shoots her another disgusted look.

“Chad, then.”

“Oh, piss off.” She rips off the glove with a noise of triumph, throwing this one at him, hitting him square in the chest. It does nothing to ease the weight of the silence between them, so she shakes out her back, chews her lip, reminding herself to at least carry her shoulders right as to avoid providing him with any more weaponry to use against her. “Listen,” she tries, “does _Derby_ make you feel safe? Does _Derby_ make you _happy?_ ”

The twitch at his lips is her victory of the day, no matter how small. “I know you skinning your knuckles won’t. —Maybe Tad’s. His level of expertise's probably the closest to yours. Which is to say, nonexistent—”

“God, shut up and let me hit you.”

**Author's Note:**

> i want zoe and bif to get along


End file.
